Backlash
by PsychGirl
Summary: Jim meets with IA following Lash's killing.


**Disclaimer**: I didn't make these guys up, but I do love playing with them. I'm doing it all out of love, though, and not making a dime, so please don't sue me...

**Warnings**: Pre-slash. Rated primarily for language. Spoilers for Cypher and The Debt.

Written for the Sentinel Thursday challenge "meltdown" on LJ.

* * *

"Detective Ellison, please come in, have a seat."

Jim closed the door behind him and sat down in the chair across the desk from Sheila Irwin. Her tone was noticeably frosty, which didn't surprise him. They'd had a few run-ins when he'd first joined Major Crimes, mostly due to the fact that he'd been a grade-A jerk back then. This was the first time he'd had to deal with her since she'd transferred to IA, though. He rubbed his hands on his thighs nervously.

"As you know, Detective, any time a suspect is killed, we have to do an investigation."

Jim nodded, feeling oddly relieved. "I understand." This was just routine, then.

"Can you tell me what happened once you located the suspect?"

"I entered the building and proceeded to the third floor, where the suspect had the victim restrained and was attempting to sedate him in order to render him immobile. Upon entering the room, I advised the suspect of my credentials and requested that he cease his activities. The suspect did as directed, and I proceeded down a small flight of stairs with the intent of apprehending the suspect. Unbeknownst to me, however, the suspect had altered one of the steps in a manner so as to cause it to collapse once any weight was placed upon it…"

_But that really isn't what happened at all_, Jim thought, as a part of him went on describing the events of that night to Irwin in the appropriate police-approved jargon. _What happened was that I had a meltdown_.

The instant he'd entered the loft to find it trashed, furniture broken, door hanging ajar, cushions and books and pictures scattered across the floor, he'd felt anger boiling in his gut, a pure fury like he'd never known running through his veins. No time to understand why, though; he'd had to push it aside, needing to think clearly. The clock was ticking and he needed to figure out where Lash had taken Sandburg.

But once he'd heard Blair's voice coming from the old, abandoned building -- taunting Lash, defiance in his tone -- his rage had surged to the forefront again. He'd tried to keep it professional, on the stairs, but seeing Sandburg chained to that chair, half-conscious; knowing how close he'd come to being another of Lash's victims…then the stairs had given way, and Lash had jumped on him, and he'd…he'd just…snapped. Growling, his teeth bared, he'd slammed the sick fuck up against the wall, intending to close his hands around Lash's neck and slowly squeeze the life out of him.

But Lash had had a strength born of madness, and he'd fought back, and they'd crashed through the glass door and down two stories, landing on the debris littering the basement floor with a thump that drove the breath from his lungs.

It hadn't cooled his anger any, but it had given him enough presence of mind to draw on his training and move quietly through the basement as he searched for Lash. Although part of his attention had been upstairs, trying to listen for Blair, wanting to make sure he was all right. That was probably why Lash had been able to blindside him, in spite of the fact that Jim had seen coming him in the glass.

He'd gotten his gun back, though, and when Lash had rushed him, holding his piece of wood high like a club, his first shot had been instinct, honed by his years in the military and the force. Direct hit; center mass. Lash had staggered backwards, surprise blossoming across his face; dead already, although he didn't know it yet. And then the fury had taken over, and before he'd known what he was doing, he had pumped four more bullets into Lash's dead body.

He'd stood, looking down at where Lash had fallen, feeling slightly dizzy and sick. His face was hot, his heart pounding in his chest, the gun hanging limply in his right hand. He'd never fired his weapon in anger before. Oh, he'd killed – not many, but enough – but it had always been calculated, efficient. Never with this kind of rage, this loss of control. He'd felt suddenly adrift, exposed.

He'd taken a deep breath, run his free hand over his face, wiped away the sweat cooling there. His stomach had lurched as he'd realized how much Lash's still form looked like Sandburg; still dressed in Sandburg's clothes, the brown wig slightly askew. _Sandburg_. He'd cast his hearing out, but couldn't detect any sound from above. Carefully, feeling every one of the scrapes and bruises he'd received, now that the adrenaline was ebbing, he'd levered himself into the hole where Lash's body lay and started searching his pockets for the key to Sandburg's chains.

"Detective?"

Irwin's voice snapped him back to the present.

"Detective, I asked you a question." She rose and came around to the side of her desk, arms crossed, looking down at him.

Jim cleared his throat. "I'm…uh, I'm sorry, I didn't hear it."

"Something on your mind that you'd like to tell me?"

"No," he replied flatly. "Just going over it again in my head to make sure I had all the details right." There was no way he was going to confess to IA, and Sheila Irwin at that, that he had gunned down David Lash in a blind rage for reasons that he didn't fully understand.

She regarded him silently for a few minutes, her look speculative. "Detective, did you know any of the victims personally?"

Jim's brows drew together in confusion. "No. Why do you ask?"

"What about Mr. Sandburg?"

He felt his heart start to pound as anger washed through him. "Well, as he survived, I wasn't counting him as one of the victims," he said, scowling. "But, yes, since you ask, I do know Mr. Sandburg."

Irwin picked up a file from her desk and opened it. "He's been riding along with you since the end of March as a civilian observer, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And what is he observing?"

"He's writing his doctoral dissertation on the police force and how it operates as a closed society, or something like that. You know, if you're interested, I'm sure we could get him in here to tell you all about it."

Irwin raised her hand. "That won't be necessary." She turned a page in the file. "Is this correct, Detective? It says here that his address is the same as your own?"

Jim rubbed his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on. "Yes," he answered shortly.

"And why is that?"

"Excuse me?"

"What is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Sandburg?"

_None of your goddamned business_, he wanted to snarl. He settled for an icy stare. "Is that really relevant?" he snapped.

"Well, when you create leads out of thin air, mobilize an entire SWAT team based on a hunch, break evidence protocols, and use excessive force to deal with a suspect, it starts to look as if you're having some difficulty remaining objective…"

_Break evidence protocols. Son of a bitch_. He shifted in his seat, pinning Irwin with a furious glare. "This isn't a routine investigation, is it, Detective Irwin? Someone reported me to IA."

Irwin had the good grace to look abashed, her cheeks coloring slightly. "IA investigations are routine in cases where the suspect is killed during apprehension, but, yes, we had a complaint that you were not following proper police procedure during this case."

_Son of a bitch. Carolyn. It had to be Carolyn. She had turned him in. Because he'd broken the seal on that water_.

"Let me tell you something, Detective Irwin," he said, rising from the chair so he could look her in the eyes, "David Lash was a perverse, dangerous man who killed three people and managed to hide himself right under our noses. There's no telling what he was capable of." He took a deep breath. "And, not that it matters, Mr. Sandburg is living with me because, two weeks ago, the warehouse that he was renting was destroyed in a drug lab explosion and he needed a place to stay. Does that meet with your approval?"

She met his gaze unflinchingly. "David Lash was 5'10" and weighted 145 pounds. Surely you didn't need five bullets to subdue him."

"You weren't there," he said, his voice low and tight. "It was my call, and I made the right one. Lash was a twisted, sick bastard. It's better for everyone that he's dead."

"Oh, and that's your decision to make, is it?"

He locked gazes with her. "We done here?" he asked, after a few moments.

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he could clearly sense that she thought there was something that he wasn't telling her. "For now," she said flatly. "But don't go anywhere. I might have more questions for you."

Jim turned without a word and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Out in the hallway, he paused for a moment, then made a beeline for the men's room. Standing in front of the sink, he sluiced cold water on his face, trying to calm himself down. He couldn't understand why the thought of Lash made him so angry. He'd dealt with sickos like Lash before; some of the perps he'd collared had been worse. He gripped the edges of the sink tightly. Why had he let Lash get under his skin like that? Why had he had that meltdown, why had he responded out of anger rather than duty?

_He violated your home_, his mind supplied. _He invaded your territory, he took something that was precious to you_…

_Precious to me_?…_oh, fuck_…

It was suddenly all so clear. Where the anger had come from, what had driven him to empty his gun into Lash's body. Sandburg. Lash had had Sandburg. Had taken Sandburg. _Took something that was precious to you_…

_What is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Sandburg_?

No. He couldn't do this, couldn't give in to these feelings. It was bad enough that he was dependent on Sandburg for help with these damned senses. He wouldn't, he couldn't give anyone that kind of hold over him. Not again. He preferred being a loner, being alone. He didn't need anyone. He didn't want to need anyone.

He grabbed a paper towel out of the dispenser; dried his face roughly, embracing the painful rasp of the paper against his skin as a reminder of the control he didn't have. As he pushed his way out of the bathroom, he saw Sandburg coming down the hall towards him.

"Hey, man, I was looking for you. You done with IA? You ready to head for home?" Sandburg said, grinning at him.

"Yeah," he replied shortly.

Sandburg's grin faded. "You okay?" he asked. "You said it was going to be no big deal…"

"It wasn't," he lied, the response coming out sharper than he had intended. Feeling guilty, both for the lie and for Sandburg's fading grin, he raised his hand, forestalling the questions he could see in Sandburg's eyes. "I've just got a headache. Why don't you get your stuff and I'll meet you in the garage?"

"Okay," Sandburg agreed. He headed for the stairs, then turned back to face Jim. "I think I can help with that; the headache, I mean," he said. "I've got an herbal tea blend that might ease the pain a little."

Jim nodded, cursing himself for feeling so absurdly grateful. He got on the elevator and pushed the button for the garage, then rested his head against the cool metal wall as the elevator lurched downwards. _Something precious_…_crap_.

He was so screwed.


End file.
